


In Dulci Jubilo

by Kate_Lear



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A festive snippet written for wordstrings' <a href="http://wordstrings.livejournal.com/4198.html">Sherlock BBC holiday meme</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Dulci Jubilo

**Author's Note:**

> The opening scene was taken from [this gift](http://booshbesotted.livejournal.com/23446.html) that I got from booshbesotted as part of the [Holmestice holiday exchange](http://community.livejournal.com/holmestice/).

The bag bumps gently against John’s side as they walk through the snow. The feeling pleases him: it’s a small reminder that this year he’s found something for Harry that he knows she’ll really like. They don’t always get along, true, but Christmas is all about friends and family and the sad truth is that, for all they bicker and fight, each of them is now the only family the other has since their parents passed on. Therefore inside the bag is a bottle of a limited edition perfume that she loved when it came out, and bewailed when it was discontinued.

John knows that Sherlock has his reservations towards Harry. Nonetheless he had, in typical fashion, volunteered that he knew a woman who might be able to get her hands on a bottle, and who was only too happy to assist the man who’d saved her from false imprisonment.

On John’s other side, Sherlock’s arm is lodged solidly against his, and their fingers are entwined. Their free hands are snugged warmly inside pockets and gloves; it’s really too cold to have bare flesh exposed to the icy air but John likes the skin-to-skin contact and Sherlock must do as well, since he’s holding tightly with no sign of letting go. The fairy lights in the shop windows give a warm glow to Sherlock’s skin as he raises his chin and grandly declares, ‘Of _course_ I can always guess my presents. It’s hardly a feat; even most normal people manage to do it.’

John grins down at the ground, a small private smile that he knows Sherlock will see anyway. He’s fairly sure he’s managed to thwart Sherlock this year but how he loves to watch him try, because Sherlock is rarely happier than when he has a new puzzle.

As they turn the corner into Baker Street, John’s attention is caught by a small figure standing on the opposite side. It seems to be waiting for someone, given the large suitcase behind it, and it looks a bit too small to be out without a guardian or attendant, and Sherlock doesn’t resist when John gently pulls him across the road.

Closer to, without the blurring effect of falling snow, John can see that it’s a young boy. He’s been carol-singing and has just stopped for a break; he has a small dish on the ground in front of him with a few coins in it, and looks to be about 10 years old. John tries his best not to sound condescending as he asks, ‘Are you all right? Do you need some help?’

‘I’m fine.’

As John struggles for a non-patronising way to say _Don’t you have a parent or guardian with you?_ , Sherlock scrutinises the boy and says, ‘School holidays haven’t started yet. Shouldn’t you still be at Eton? No–’ he corrects himself, ‘Harrow. My mistake.’

Despite himself, the boy looks a bit awestruck but recovers quickly. Lifting his chin, he answers quickly, with unusual self-possession. ‘I’ve come to London early. Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘You shouldn’t play truant.’ Inwardly, John _cringes_ at the Responsible Adult voice that comes out of his mouth, and tries to justify it with: ‘You’ll fall behind in your lessons.’

The boy huffs the world-weary, put-upon sigh of the young. ‘Hardly. Lessons are easy. In fact they’re _dull_.’

‘Won’t your friends worry about where you’ve gone?’

The boy looks away and mutters, almost inaudibly, ‘Don’t have any.’

 _Oh_. Now he looks, _really_ looks, John can see that the boy is actually older than he’d initially thought: he’s short for his age, with the slightly too-long arms and big feet that promise future height but usually leave the owner feeling awkward and filled with hatred for his own clumsiness (John feels a flash of sympathy, remembering his own gawky adolescence). The boy must be more like thirteen, and clearly very mature for his age.

‘Look, I know it’s a hassle,’ John says, ‘but you have to at least let your school know you’re safe. You might get into trouble, and I’m _sure_ your parents will be worrying.’

‘My parents are both working away over Christmas. There’s only Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper, and she doesn’t care what I do.’ John takes a moment to be grateful that, even though his family didn’t have a lot of money during his childhood, at least his parents were _there_ , and the boy continues, ‘And I won’t get any trouble from school. Not _serious_ trouble – that would mean they’d have to kick me out of the school choir and they’re reluctant to do that.’

At this, Sherlock makes a noise of interest. ‘You’re in the choir. Any good?’

As the boy looks up and narrows his eyes at Sherlock, clearly offended, John grins at the thought that Sherlock has probably never before received that look from anyone who doesn’t even come up to his chest.

 _‘Very_ good.’

And without any further preamble or encouragement, he opens his mouth and starts to sing. The carol is _Once In Royal David’s City_ , and John doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath until the high note midway through the first verse rings out pure and clear as a bell, and all the hair on the nape of his neck stands up.

Sherlock listens all the way through without a flicker of expression, but when it’s finished he drops a ten-pound note in the dish at the boy’s feet and says, ‘I suspect you’re right, and that your school _won’t_ be giving you any trouble. Nevertheless, it does cause a lot of inconvenient questions and kerfuffle if you fail to notify them. Trust me.’ Sherlock makes as if to leave, but then pauses to add, ‘If you want a break from the snow, we live at 221B.’

The boy looks at him suspiciously. ‘I know the number for ChildLine, you know.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ Sherlock says dryly, arching an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure you’re entirely capable of taking care of yourself. Nevertheless.’ He tucks an arm through John’s, drawing him towards their warm flat, where they can change their snow-damp clothes, and calls over his shoulder, ‘Merry Christmas.’

\----------

In the flat, under John’s covert observation, Sherlock seems unable to settle. He paces aimlessly, picks up an experiment only to abandon it, and drinks half of the mug of tea John makes him before leaving it, forgotten, on the table. After half an hour the snow lessens and then stops, and John already knows what Sherlock is going to do. He hasn’t lived with him for over a year and learned nothing about the twin sciences of observation and deduction.

Sherlock is heading towards the door, violin case in hand and scarf around his neck when John stops him to ask, ‘Can I come too?’

‘Of course.’ Sherlock looks surprised, and then adds conscientiously, ‘But it’s not for a case, though.’

‘I know.’

It squeezes John’s heart that not enough people have told Sherlock that his playing (when he makes the effort to play something intelligible and not scrape randomly) is worth a trek across a lot more than a mere snowy pavement, but for now he dons his coat and picks up his gloves without comment.

The boy is right where they left him, the clear notes vying with the traffic noise and his breath leaving great steamy plumes in the frosty air. When he sees them he looks worried for a moment, clearly thinking that they’re going to deliver him to the care of the authorities, but he brightens when Sherlock holds up his violin case and asks, ‘Mind if I join you?’

A wide grin (that he’s yet to grow into) lights up the boy’s face as he nods, and Sherlock takes out his violin, tightens the bowstrings perfunctorily, and then launches into the opening chords of _Oh Little Town of Bethlehem_. John finds a comfortable spot to lean against the railings and settles in to listen.

The pair of them work their way through all the old traditional carols: _The Holly And The Ivy, While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night_ and _Good Christian Men Rejoice_ , which the boy sings in the original Latin and German, clearly unable to resist showing off. As his toes grow cold and he loses feeling in the tip of his nose, John stays where he is and listens to the ungainly boy with a voice like an earthbound angel and the tall man John loves, whose long clever fingers coax music from the strings that’s joyful and reverent by turns. They perform well together: Sherlock quickly learns just how long the boy can hold a note, and he changes between improvising harmonies when the fancy takes him and then following the melody while the clear soprano soars above him singing the descant. John just leans there in quiet adoration, helpless to do anything but _love_ Sherlock until it’s a physical ache deep in his chest.

Eventually, when the boy’s voice is starting to sound ever so slightly strained and Sherlock’s fingers look red and stiff, they stop. The boy picks up his dish; passers-by have been generous since Sherlock joined him and John estimates that he must have over two hundred quid in there. He’s pink and grinning and obviously overjoyed with his success, and even as he looks at Sherlock, clearly thinking that the grown-up thing to do would be to divide it between them, Sherlock waves him away with a terse but not unkind ‘Keep it.’

It’s evident that the boy comes from a family that can give him all the money he could possibly need, but John wonders how Sherlock felt the first time he got _paid_ for a case and realised that he could do this for a living.

Picking up his violin case, Sherlock holds out his hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’

Looking pleased and just a little bit self-conscious at this man-to-man treatment, the boy shakes Sherlock’s hand. ‘Likewise. Thank you.’

Before he lets go, Sherlock looks at him curiously. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tarquin Wollstonecraft,’ the boy says, face darkening. ‘Don’t make any comments.’

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ Sherlock answers, his hand tightening ever-so-briefly on Tarquin’s in a comradely fashion. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

Just before the three of them go their separate ways, Tarquin’s self-assured composure cracks and he asks, with a boy’s insatiable curiosity, ‘Aren’t you going to tell me to work hard, and that school’s not that bad really?’

‘Me? I wouldn’t presume to do such a thing,’ Sherlock says, his eyebrows lifting. ‘I suspect you find that you don’t really need to work hard, in any case. But I _will_ tell you to stick it out, and that afterwards… life does get better.’

And for the second time that night, Sherlock laces his freezing fingers through John’s as he pulls John gently yet insistently towards their home.

\----------

Once back in the flat, John tips out Sherlock’s abandoned and now-cold tea and puts the kettle on for more, as they both need to warm up. When it’s ready, he carries the steaming mugs through to the living room, sets them carefully on the coffee table, and then climbs into Sherlock’s lap where he’s sitting on the couch. He cups Sherlock’s cold face in his hands and kisses his chapped lips softly, and murmurs, ‘I love you.’

Sherlock looks at him with a bemused but pleased expression, as though John has come out with it at an entirely irrelevant moment. As though John hasn’t just stood for close to an hour in the freezing cold, watching Sherlock play Christmas carols in unspoken solidarity with a young boy who’s shunned by his peers for being different and too intelligent, and whose parents seem to be too busy to spend Christmas with their own son.

John cups Sherlock’s icy fingers between his warm palms and huffs on them a bit before saying, ‘I’d never have thought that you’d know Christmas carols, what with you not being religious.’

He bestows a small kiss on Sherlock’s knuckles as Sherlock answers lazily, ‘It was years ago, back when I was first learning the violin and my tutor was frantically trying to keep me supplied with new pieces.’ He frowns. ‘It’s surprisingly difficult to delete things learned in childhood, even when they’re now completely irrelevant.’

John thinks of the joyful strains of _The First Noel_ that are still going round in his head, and that made his throat swell up when he heard them half an hour ago.

‘Well,’ he says, encouraging Sherlock’s fingers to lie against the warmth of his collarbone, ‘thank God for some things.’

\--End--


End file.
